it is the eleventh minute of the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the eleventh year and you are standing in the gloaming outside your apartment. for the first time, you understand what it means to have a broken home: it is knowing that everything behind those sliding glass doors is irreparable. that the home you have built with your lover is no longer a place you may enter casually, as you choose. it is a place guarded by fences and razor wire; a place you require a passport, a permission slip, to cross.
you are staring at the windows trying to figure out where and when you reached the point of loss. that point at which all of the love you once felt left you like a ghost and hung around to haunt you just long enough to drag it out. before this, everything in you would have been aching to enter and touch your lover. but now… the ache is for something else altogether.